


Coming Home

by LennysDiary, NessieTheCad



Series: Diaries Inspired Works [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: #SorryNotSorry, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Adoption, Bipolar Disorder, But it's dark shit, Co-Written, Depression, Drinking, Emotional Roller Coaster, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Music, Mental Health Issues, Oh Fuck I'm Writing A Het Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, Well You're Damned Right There's No Choking, What do you mean there's no Choking?, cigarettes after sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28997316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennysDiary/pseuds/LennysDiary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NessieTheCad/pseuds/NessieTheCad
Summary: Leah Bordeaux is coming home to reconnect with her long lost twin, and hoping to start over while she's at it. Running from a messy divorce, an adoptive family that doesn't want her, and more issues than a news stand. But she wasn't expecting to find Taylor Smith in the too small town she's found herself in. She doesn't expect to fall in love with him either. And Taylor?Well, he's never met a girl like Leah before.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Diaries Inspired Works [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101503
Comments: 15
Kudos: 3





	1. Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Once more I was enabled to write some shit, and I have once more enlisted the wonderful Ness to help me do so.
> 
> Enjoy, fuckers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My name is Leah, and I was given up for adoption as a baby._
> 
> _And today? I’m finally going to meet my family._

LEAH–

I carry a picture in my pocket that I’ve had ever since I was little. It’s a polaroid of a man and a woman. In the picture, they’re standing arm-in-arm on the screened in porch of a double-wide trailer. The man is medium height, skinny, sort of wiry, with shaggy black hair and dark eyes, wearing a beater and jeans, pinching a cigarette between his lips. The woman next to him is rail thin, with sort of a willowy frame, also with dark hair and piercing green eyes that match my own. 

She looks tired, and in the picture there’s a little boy on her hip.

That’s my twin brother, Leonard.

Those people in the picture with him are the biological parents I’ve never met.

My name is Leah, and I was given up for adoption as a baby.

And today? I’m finally going to meet my family.

But I suppose I need to start at the beginning of all this, and explain exactly why and how I’m currently in my car, having drove halfway across the country, to meet a perfect stranger I’ve never contacted until now. Well it goes like this: I’m divorced, I’ve been living with my mother–adoptive mother, I mean–and recently she and I had a falling out. I’ve never been very close to my family, and my “mother” was really the only one I spoke to. So I’m kind of on my own now.

I’ve known I was adopted since I was little, but I never knew who my biological family was. Mom refused to tell me any time I asked about them. She’d get defensive, and sob about how I was breaking her heart and she’d say things like, “Why am I not enough for you?!” Because she assumed my curiosity was because I wasn’t satisfied with my adoptive family, despite how often I would reassure her that it wasn’t the case. Above all, she would tell me nothing about my biological parents.

Eventually I gave up asking about them, but I always had that photo of them, that she gave me when I was little, as she explained to me why I was so different from the rest of my family. Why I didn’t look like them, why I didn’t have my father’s eyes or my mother’s nose, and why no one in my family would ever be able to donate a kidney or even give me a blood transfusion. Why I’m bipolar, when no one in my family has any history of mental illness.

But I just had so many questions for them, like why they gave me up for adoption, why they didn’t want me, and if they were anything like me. If I would find a connection with them that I didn’t have with my adoptive family. So I went looking for answers on my own. I gave a private investigator the photo I had of my parents, and what little information I knew about them already, which was my mother’s name, Keisha Marks. She went to highschool with my adoptive mother.

The private investigator got back in touch with me, after looking into the matter, and told me this: my mother and father were dead, Keisha’s mother, Brenda, raised their son, Leonard, after they passed away, and she’s gone now too, but my brother is still alive and still lives and works there, in Keisha’s hometown. When my mom found out I hired a P.I., she flipped out. We got in a fight and now she’s disowned me. She tells me I betrayed her. But I feel like it’s the other way around.

But I didn’t care, because I just _had to know_.

I was so sick of having all these unanswered questions about who I am.

So I found out where Leonard works. 

I got their business number from the yellow pages.

I made the call.

“Hi I’m wondering if I could speak to Leonard? Uhm, he’s… Brenda Marks’ grandson, I dunno if you know her, but…”

“Oh! Lenny. Right, yeah, he’s not in today. Let me give you his cell number.”

“Thank you.”

I got his phone number, and I sat, biting my nails down to the quick, agonizing over what to say to this guy. I summed up what I knew about him thus far, in my mind. He’s the manager of a restaurant, so in my head I imagined a corporate type, wearing a dress shirt and tie, with pens clipped to the inside of his breast pocket. Maybe he wears reading glasses or something, and he sits at a desk with a cup of coffee from the local 7 Eleven. Speaks in this sort of bored, nasally tone of voice.

I took a deep breath, then hit the call button. 

“Hello?” a male voice answered and my heart drummed faster.

“Uh, hi. Uhm… Is this Leonard?”

I heard a snort. “Fuck no,” the very _not_ yuppie sounding voice replied. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Wait, so, this is not Leonard Marks?”

“Hell no this ain’t Leonard Marks! Who the fuck told you this phone belonged to a Leonard fucking Marks?! Lady, I think you got the wrong fucking number.”

I took another calming breath. “So you’re not Brenda Marks’ grandson?”

“Well yeah? But my name ain’t fuckin’ Leonard Marks… Who the fuck is this?”

I glanced around the motel room I was sitting in, my heart pounding against my rib cage. This was my brother’s voice I was hearing. The person with which I share a genetic code. My flesh and blood, if you will. My palms were sweaty and I reached for my pack of menthols, needing a cigarette just then. I lit one up and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room. “My name’s Leah Raynes, and… I think you might be my brother.” There was dead silence on the other end.

For a long minute, nothing was said, but then I heard, very quietly spoken, “How the fuck is that even possible?”

“Uhm, my mom, she was… she knew Keisha and… she couldn’t have kids, so Keisha let her adopt me?”

“Brenda never said anything about me having an older sister.”

“Twin sister,” I corrected.

“Twin sister,” he breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I heard heavy breathing on the phone that sounded like maybe he was hyperventilating. “Holy fucking shit… No. No you can’t be… I mean she wouldn’t… Holy fucking shit!!” I gave him a minute to process what I just told him. “Okay,” he breathed, then seemingly talking to himself, “Okay let’s think about this here. Twin sister. Given up for adoption at birth, but grandma never talked about it because… well, okay maybe she didn’t–was it a closed adoption?”

Oh. He’s asking me? “I don't believe it was, no. I mean, I knew my mother’s name? Like, Keisha and Deb went to school together, but like… the information was kept a secret. Sort of. My mom told me when I was eight that I was adopted and she showed me a picture of–”

“Text me the picture,” he rushed to say. “Don’t hang up, just send it to me right now. I need to see this shit.”

“Okay…” So I took the phone away from my ear and reached for the black studded leather purse sitting nearby. I pulled out the old polaroid of Keisha, my biological father, and Leonard–Lenny, I mean. I snapped a picture of it with my camera and texted it to the number I dialed. Then I put the phone back up to my ear.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he cursed, obviously having gotten the picture. “Hold on one sec.” I heard a rustling noise, then the sound of a metal box being opened and the contents being dumped out. After, the sounds of paper rustling. My phone vibrated seconds later with an incoming message. I was shaky when I opened the message to see a picture of a five by seven that had been taken with a disposable camera. Of the _same_ people. 

The same two people that I’ve been told were my biological parents.

“That’s… your mom and dad?”

“And obviously yours too,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was happy about it or not though, he just sounded shocked more than anything else, but it proved I had the right person. This was my brother I was talking to. Allegedly. “Can I… can I see what you look like?” he asked me.

I ran my fingers through my hair at that. I looked like total shit. Not that I should be worried about impressing someone I’m biologically related to, but still, I had bed head and not a stitch of make up on, so I looked like a corpse. I’m not a very attractive woman, in my opinion. I’ve been told that my black hair and green eyes look good with my pale complexion, and that I sort of look like Billie Eilish, which I take as a compliment, but I hate my bone structure. Nevertheless, I snapped a photo.

“Oh my God,” he said, when he received the picture. “Okay hold on.” Another pause, then my phone vibrated again with an incoming mms message.

My jaw dropped when I saw what he looked like. 

I held my phone up in one hand and the polaroid in the other, comparing the two, and seeing a young, green eyed, clean shaved version of my father, with gauged ears and a matching scowl. 

“You look… you look just like him,” I said into the phone and he snorted.

“Yeah I get that a lot, unfortunately,” he said. “But you, oh my fucking God, you… you like just like mom. This is… fuck this is so crazy.”

“So do you think… do you think we might be related?”

“Might be?!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Man, get the fuck outta here with that _maybe_ bullshit. Holy fucking shit I have a fucking sister!!” I laughed a little at that. He sounded kind of like me when I laugh and… it was just strange to hear. Like I was hearing what I would sound like as a guy. Crazy. His voice isn’t as deep as I expected it to be though. But I… really wasn’t expecting him to sound so normal either. So down to earth. I guess I should’ve, considering he’s from such a small town, but… 

Then he asked, “Can we meet? Like, how far away do you live?”

“Uhm… actually I…” I glanced around the room again, then I peaked through the curtain, gazing out the window. The motel I stopped at for the night was about thirty minutes from town. “I’m not that far,” I admitted. “I was kind of hoping you would be okay with meeting me. I’m… staying at the Best Western out by the interstate? And I was thinking maybe we could meet tomorrow, whatever time works for you. That was, if you wanted to meet. But I wasn’t expecting you to. I don’t expect anything from–”

“Stop,” he interjected. “Stop right there. What time and where?”

And thus the reason I’m driving. 

It’s the very next day and I’m on my way to the local McDonald’s to meet my brother for the very first time. I’m nervous as fuck. Like, I know he’s probably going to hate me. I’m not very cool, I’ve never done anything even remotely interesting with my life, and I’m not successful either. I scraped together the last of my savings just to make the trip last minute, and I honestly don’t know where I’m going to go from here. I have no plans for the future, and I’m flying by the seat of my pants.

I’m listening to a little indie pop to keep me calm on the drive over. A band called Cigarettes After Sex. Their tone is slow and melodic, and it soothes me, keeps me from going into a manic episode which will dial my energy to eleven. I love the lead singer’s voice. They sound androgynous, and the ambiguity adds to the mellow ambiance and raw emotion of the lyrics. Sometimes the songs make me sad, but it’s a good kind of sad. The kind of sad that’s actually rather cathartic to experience.

(Everyone needs a good cry every once in a while.)

But I am still pretty anxious and still biting my nails as I pull in to the parking lot of the fast food joint, then find a place to park. My nerves are shot, waiting for him to show up. Wondering if he changed his mind and stood me up, until finally I see a black car pull in and park on the other side. Then a figure steps out. It’s him. He’s kind of tall? But not too tall, and his hair is buzzed close to his scalp. He’s wearing a black band tee with the sleeves ripped off, jeans and a faded pair of Vans.

Covered in tattoos. Puffing on a cigarette as he leans against the hood of his car. He’s not what I was expecting, but it’s kind of comforting, because I’d expected him to be this uptight guy, you know? But clearly he isn’t. He’s about as average as it gets. He looks like just the type that probably smokes weed and drinks and such things like that. Parties every weekend. Definitely listens to heavy metal, because I see the t-shirt he’s wearing has the word Godsmack emblazoned across the front.

So… that’s Lenny.

Lenny Bordeaux.

My twin brother.

Nervously, I step out of my car and make my way across the parking lot, hands shoved into the center pouch of my hooded jacket. When he sees me, he straightens, then just stares. For a long time, neither of us say anything. Just stare. Each slowly coming to terms with the fact that the other is real. In the flesh. Actual people and actually standing here in this parking lot. His face scrunches and his eyes narrow, and I realize he’s starting to cry, just looking at me. I start to tear up too.

This is my brother. My biological brother. My… my _family_.

“H-Holy shit,” he curses, then covers his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks. And holy shit is right. He darts towards me and I gasp when he pulls me into his arms and hugs me tight, so tight I can barely breathe. I’m not a hugger, and I’m weird about physical affection sometimes, so I don’t know what to do at first, as my personal space is invaded, but after a moment, I relax and let him hug me. Even hug him back, tucking my arms around his narrow waist. 

Obviously he needs this, and I think I did too.

“Holy fucking shit!” he curses again, and I chuckle a little.

I have a feeling we’re both going to be saying that a lot for the foreseeable future.

But there you have it.

I’m… well, I guess I’m Leah _Bordeaux_ , actually… and this is where my story begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme Song: ["You're All I Want"–Cigarettes After Sex](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=BZ6D9SEvBHs&feature=share)
> 
> Leah's Playlist: [Can Be Found Here](https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgsKe1-pKLs-jpMTyUGz27TJ7r8QzeEZW)
> 
> Chat with the writers on Discord: <https://discord.gg/wVFt8Ke5YN>


	2. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He pulls up in front of an old one story house that feels familiar for some reason. Maybe it’s just my mind searching for connections again, reaching for anything it can latch onto and claim. Something with meaning to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: ["Into Dust"–Mazzy Star](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=04J0ihSeIuI&feature=share)

I sit across from him at a booth inside the McDonald’s, and watch him dump a fry container onto the tray between us, to scoop fries in-between bites of his cheeseburger. His face is drawn into a thoughtful frown as he eats, and so is mine. A shared idiosyncrasy. Something that connects us, despite having grown our entire lives apart. A coincidence maybe. Having resting bitch face is pretty common. But two sets of green eyes watch the other for a moment, silently assessing one another. 

“I can’t figure out why grandma never told me about you,” he says, between bites.

I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. Mom–Deborah, I mean–she never told me anything about you either. I had to hire a private investigator just to find you.”

He lifts a dark brow at that. “So, like, what do you do? For living, I mean.”

“I… well, I was a homemaker before my ex and I got divorced. Before that I worked at places like this,” I gesture to the restaurant. “Just anywhere that would hire me really.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Yeah. It was… a mess.”

“Understandable. Most divorces are. So what do you do now?”

“Now?” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’m still looking for a job, actually. But it’s hard. I kind of… don’t really have that impressive of a resume, know what I mean?”

“Totally know what you mean,” he nods. “God this is weird,” he then admits. “You just… I dunno, I’m just wondering if you’re what mom must’ve sounded like. I don’t remember her voice.”

“What happened to our parents? The PI didn’t tell me anything. Just told me they were deceased? And that you were raised by Brenda.”

Lenny takes a deep breath at that, and lets it out slow, as if talking about it is still painful for him. “That’s… a lot to unpack,” he says, then takes another bite of his burger. With his mouth full, he adds, “Probably why that guy didn’t tell you shit.” He swallows. “Your mom too. She probably knew, and she didn’t want you getting dragged into all that shit somehow.” He snatches up a napkin from the dispenser and wipes his mouth. “It was some pretty bad shit.”

Well, I kind of doubted it would be a happy tale, full of sunshine and rainbows.

Death is never a happy thing, now is it?

At the end of the day, we’re still orphans.

I rest my elbows on the table, and it starts moving. My head rears in confusion for a second, but I look underneath the table to see his leg is bouncing up and down. Looks as calm as can be from the waist up, almost bored really, that’s just how mellowed out he seems, but underneath the table he’s a mess of energy, his leg twitching so much that I can feel the movement throughout the whole booth. Odd. I wonder if this is what I look like to people when I fidget.

“So what happened?” I ask, ignoring his oddball behavior in favor of getting answers, because I’m way too fucking curious and I have been waiting my whole life to finally find out.

His eyes slide to the other customers nearby. “Yeah we probably shouldn’t talk about this here,” he says, when his eyes meet mine again.

* * *

I follow his car in mine down an old winding dirt road, that twists and snakes through the country side like a slithering brown copperhead. I’ve never been here before. Deborah moved away before I was old enough to walk. But oddly it feels like I’m coming back to a place I once visited. Maybe it’s the mountains and pretty maple trees, the beautiful scenery that sort of calms me, like the serenity you feel when you turn off your cell phone and escape to the country on a family camping trip.

Eventually the path splits, and when Lenny hangs a left, so do I, then follow him down an even bumpier gravel driveway. He pulls up in front of an old one story house that feels familiar for some reason. Maybe it’s just my mind searching for connections again, reaching for anything it can latch onto and claim. Something with meaning to me. But it’s a decent house, in seemingly good condition, though the porch and the yard surrounding it are fairly cluttered with junk.

There’s a garage next to it, and what appears to be a deck on the far side of the house. I can spot Christmas lights someone never remembered to take down, and the front window of the house is covered up with a face. I realize it’s a blanket, tacked to the frame, and the face is Bob Marley. I don’t even have to like that kind of music to know who he was. Everyone knows. When we pull in, there’s already a man stepping outside and shoving his hands deep in his pockets, waiting to greet us.

He’s elderly, and his long ponytail is mostly gray, though judging by the tinge of slate, it used to be dark brown, maybe even black. I don’t wonder if he’s an uncle or grandparent, because the investigator was sure to mention Brenda had no other living relatives than Lenny. But he behaves in a familial way towards him, wrapping him up in a tight squeeze of a hug when he steps onto the porch. “Hey kiddo, how’s it goin’?” he asks, his voice slow and sort of gravelly. He sounds like a stoner.

Looks like one too, as if the Bob Marley blanket isn’t evidence enough to indicate he’s probably the type to roll a big fat doobie every now and then. Kick back and listen to some blues, or reggae, maybe even southern rock. I bet he knows every word to Lynard Skynard’s song, Free Bird. He’s got a faded bandana twisted up and tied around his head like a hachimaki, the head band a karate student wears. He sports a gray t-shirt with a faded denim jacket thrown over it.

There are reading glasses in the breast pocket, and there’s a bright, curious smile on his face.

“Who’s your friend?” he asks Lenny, who scratches his nose.

“This is my sister. My _twin_ sister, to be exact,” he answers and the man stares for a second.

Slowly his smile fades and a flash of recognition dances across his features. “Leanne?!” he exclaims, eyes traveling over me. He knows me. Whoever he is, he knows who I am. Has maybe even met me before, though of course I wouldn’t remember. I was a baby. But this guy knows our parents then? Or Brenda? Maybe the whole family. My heart flutters for a second, and I fumble a little at the name, embarrassed.

“It’s Leah now,” I say. “Deborah changed it. The–the woman who adopted me. She didn’t like the name. She liked Leah better.”

He steps closer to me, perhaps to get a better look at me. “Well now that is real pretty name too,” he smiles at me. “Leanne was your momma’s middle name. You were named after her.”

“This is Smoke,” Lenny supplies for me. “He knew our mom and dad.”

“Knew ‘em?” Smoke chuckles. “Hell, your dad and I were practically brothers. Kinda makes me your uncle.” He keeps looking me over, like he can hardly believe I’m standing here. “You look just like your momma,” he says. “Just as pretty as she was.”

“T-Thank you,” I mumble, feeling awkward.

He snorts. “Yeah that’s your sister, alright,” he says to Lenny. “Girl looks like she ain’t ever smiled a day in her life either.” I force one, when I hear that, the corner of my mouth turning up a little in a smirk, because I realize he’s just teasing me. “There it is,” he chuckles. “Well, I suspect you gotta lot o’ questions, now don’tchya? Won’t you come on inside and have a seat.” He waves us both into the house with him, and I trail behind Lenny, closing the door behind me.

I watch Lenny slip out of his shoes before he sits down, so I do the same, toeing out of my sneakers and looking around. The inside is clean, though evidently a bachelor pad, or at least I don’t suspect Smoke has a wife or girlfriend, given how absent it appears to be of anything feminine. There are pictures on the walls in the living room, some have Lenny in them, with Smoke and various friends. No pictures of our parents though. There are knickknacks on the shelves too.

Native American figurines, skulls and such, a poster of what appears to be the grim reaper riding a motorcycle hangs above the couch. Route 66 memorabilia, and other such masculine things. Stacks of movies, CDs and even vinyl records. Filing boxes filled with old mail. Maybe there are more pictures inside. Smoke kicks back in the recliner and Lenny settles on the couch. I sit at the far end, an equal distance between both, and watch Smoke pull a bong out of the drawer of the end table beside him.

“You get high?” he asks me and I shake my head.

I’ve never needed to smoke to regulate my mood. The handful times I ever did when I was younger, it only seemed to make me worse, anyway. At least once my buzz wore off and I started into withdrawal. I was even more depressed than my lowest points completely sober. So I stay away from it and find other ways to cope. Not that I judge anyone that smokes. It’s just not my thing. I do drink on occasion though. Not often, because it affects me the same way. But I don’t get high with them.

They’re quiet for a minute, as each take a big hit from the bong and hold in the smoke for several seconds before letting it out. Neither of them cough, obviously used to toking up on a regular basis. Part of me relaxes, as I watch them. These people are not so beyond me. They’re not rich or live glorious lives that are vastly different from mine. Granted, my adoptive father made a fairly decent living, enough to feed and clothe us, but my childhood home was not some mansion in Beverly Hills.

It was a house like this one. Only mom decorated it with table clothes and doilies on every surface, laced curtains and angel knickknacks. Wall paper in the kitchen with apples on the trim, and a plaque above the mantle that read, “Home Is Where The Heart Is.” Kids’ toys belonging to me and my step brother were around every corner and cartoons were tucked into the movie shelves. The silence drags on for a minute or so, before Lenny finally says, “She wants to know what happened to mom and dad.”

He says it somberly, like it’s so grave of a matter to discuss, and my stomach churns, almost like butterflies, but with a foreboding feeling, rather than a happy buzzing one. Smoke let’s out a sigh, then reaches for his pack of Marlboros on the end table. He lights up a cigarette, and I hold my breath. “Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah I reckon I _am_ the better one to tell this story. It ain’t easy for Len.” Lenny leans back on the couch and stares at the coffee table, as Smoke begins the nefarious tale.

The tragedy of Keisha Marks and Malcolm Bordeaux.

I feel my heart get heavier and heavier, then slowly sink to my stomach, as he tells me the story Lenny couldn’t be bothered to tell. That he had been friends with Malcolm. That he was a former member of the local motorcycle gang called the Pagans, and at the time, Malcolm was a prospect for the club, and practically family to Smoke. But the club got him involved in a number of illegal activities, including the purchase and distribution of narcotics. Lenny twitches again, as the tale is told.

Keisha and Malcolm both got hooked on the drugs they were selling. Their addiction took their lives. Smoke explains that Malcolm robbed the local ABC store, where they sell alcohol and tobacco products, and he held the cashier at gun point. Then, according to the security footage, after getting all the cash from the register, he shot the cashier. Then he bolted to the parking lot. Keisha was driving the getaway car, but they didn’t exactly get away. Died in a car crash, running from the police.

He’d robbed the liquor store for drug money, so the old man tells me. I have absolutely nothing to say to him or my brother about it. What can I say? So I just sit, and much like Lenny, I stare at the coffee table in front of me, puffing on a cigarette, my face emotionless as I process everything. When I was younger, I’d always cling to the vein hope that my birth parents would come looking for me one day. That giving me to Deborah was only temporary, and one day they’d come back for me.

As I got older, those feelings subsided, and were soon replaced with resentment for both of them, and even Lenny, wondering why they wanted him and not me. But now I realize just how fucked up the situation really was, and had I not been given up, I would’ve been raised completely parentless, by my grandmother, right alongside Lenny. Part of me thinks I should be grateful, for Deborah and her husband. And part of me thinks maybe my adoptive mother was right.

But on the flip side of those churning emotions, I also once again feel this strange feeling of closeness to the story, on a very fundamental level. I can relate to my birth mother, in a sense. It’s fucked up though, and I’m not proud of it, but I too had a drug problem. I hit a phase after I turned sixteen that lasted well into my twenties, when all I wanted to do was get drunk and high. Pills mostly, but anything I could get my hands on, because I had no other way of coping with myself.

I made bad decisions, many of them leading to the worst decision of all: my marriage. I followed in my birth mother’s footsteps without realizing and married a man much like Malcolm. No, he wasn’t a biker and no he didn’t shoot anybody, but he was toxic too, and staying with him would’ve killed me, so I’m glad I got away from him. These are all things Deborah could never sympathize with, nor would she ever understand about me. Those nervous butterflies are back.

Because I’ve found the missing piece to the puzzle I’ve been searching for my entire life, and it’s not the happy pleasant piece I’d always hoped for.

My father was a murderer and my mother was a junkie.

Eventually, I get up, and without saying a word, I walk outside and plop down on the steps of Smoke’s front porch. Obviously knowing there’s nothing they can do, neither Smoke nor Lenny stop me, and neither say a word to me. They just let me go, they give me my space, and I sit and think, purse tucked under my arm, head in my hands. I wanted this. I wanted to know these things so badly I was willing to drive a wedge between myself and the only mother I’ve ever known.

And now… I’m regretting it.

After a while, I pull the polaroid out of my purse, then hold my lighter to it, watching the picture I’ve held so close to me for twenty-two years slowly melt and catch fire. I drop it in the dirt and watch it burn. Letting the image I’d built up in my mind of my parents fade away and turn to ash, just like the photo. Lenny finally steps outside, and while he sees the cloud of dark smoke from the smoldering plastic, he doesn’t say anything about it. Just plops down next to me and sighs.

“You’ll forgive ‘em one day,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “May not be today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon, but eventually.”

I snort. “And if I can’t?”

“Then do what I did and forget they exist,” he tells me, with a shrug. “They’re not us and we’re not them. We make our own mistakes. The blood runnin’ through or veins does not dictate who we become.” I start to let some of my guard slip when I hear that, and tear up a little. I feel him slip his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s go have a beer. You wanna beer?” I nod my head. A drink sounds good right now. “I’ll take a stab in the dark here and guess that your favorite brand is Heineken.”

I make another snort. “Yours, I’m guessing?” He nods. “Yeah mine too.”

He hugs me one last time, then we stand up, and I follow him back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme Song: ["You're All I Want"–Cigarettes After Sex](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=BZ6D9SEvBHs&feature=share)
> 
> Leah's Playlist: [Can Be Found Here](https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgsKe1-pKLs-jpMTyUGz27TJ7r8QzeEZW)
> 
> Chat with the writers on Discord: <https://discord.gg/wVFt8Ke5YN>


	3. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m driving down the two lane highway that leads back to town, intent on heading straight to the motel, when I see him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: ["Lovely"–Billie Eilish](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=MMfpp0-lnw4&feature=share)

We crack open our bottles and settle on the couch, on either side of Smoke, who splays open a photo album. We pour over the pictures inside. They tell me stories about them, putting names to faces I don’t know. I try to picture the scenes they paint with their words. It’s all very quaint. There’s nothing too marvelous or exciting about their lives, and the highlight of their week is when they all get together to blast some rock music and hang out, but they enjoy themselves.

I love hearing them share their lives with me, but I can’t help but feel sort of lost still. Like I still don’t belong anywhere, and I don’t even fit in this little universe of Lenny’s either. Like an extra in the background of a movie, watching the action take place. Or maybe an actress in a tv series who’s role was shoehorned into the plot sort of last minute, to create some tension and keep the story from falling flat, but it backfired and the fans now hate the show, and my underdeveloped character.

Like I’m excess baggage no one wants or needs.

But in a way, I do fit in here. At least, more than I did around my adoptive family back home. See, I lived a similar life to Lenny’s, despite us growing up so far apart. I partied a lot when I was younger, stayed out late drinking, with entirely the wrong kinds of people, from the tender age of sixteen. And because I’m bipolar, I can’t say I was always a pleasant person to be around. I never went to jail, but I was arrested at eighteen for shoplifting, and have a misdemeanor on my record.

I don’t have a beautiful, heart-warming story either. But that’s what depresses me the most. Thinking of how I relate to my biological family in all the wrong ways. And the more I hear about my parents, the less inclined I am to believe Lenny’s words that just because we share their DNA, doesn’t mean we’ll become them, because in a way I already have. The more I hear about Keisha Marks, the more I wish I’d never come here, but I hide those feelings behind a mask of indifference.

The beer I drank keeps me somewhat mellow, but I only have the one because eventually I need to drive back to the motel, and when my buzz wears off, I feel empty, like a hallowed out shell. I’m numb as Smoke gets up, takes the album back to his bedroom, then comes out with another one, that not even Lenny has seen before. It’s smaller, only big enough to maybe hold some five by sevens, and nothing too fancy either. Just has a cross on the cover. 

“Your grandma gave me this,” he explains to both of us. “She didn’t have too many pictures of ya, but there’s a couple in here she got before Debbie moved away.”

My stomach flips when he says that, and we watch him slowly crack open the photo album to first reveal a picture of an older woman, maybe in her forties. Short, like me, with curly black hair and thick glasses that are hanging from her neck by a chain. Brenda Marks, and standing next to her is our mother. We stare for a minute, then Smoke slowly flips the page to reveal Keisha in a hospital bed, holding two infants. Twins.

 _Us_.

Leonard and Leanne Bordeaux.

“Your mom and dad kind of hit a rough patch when she was pregnant,” Smoke tells us. “They broke up for a little while, and Keisha struggled to take care of ya both. One kid was hard enough for her to take care of, and she really weren’t countin’ on having two. She already had Brenda breathin’ down her neck, tryna take her to family court to get them to give you both to her, because she didn’t even have no place to live. Her and Malcolm had been sleepin’ on my couch.”

He takes a deep breath, and deflates in a sigh. “That’s when Debbie entered the picture. She found out her friend was havin’ trouble and she offered take y’all off her hands, ‘cause she’d always wanted kids, but her and her husband couldn’t manage to get her pregnant. She was gonna go to an adoption agency, but Keisha said, ‘Well ya ain’t gotta go through all that trouble’. She was happy to give Debbie her kids. Felt like she was doin’ somethin’ noble. But Malcolm… well, when he found out about it…

Well, let’s just say he weren’t too happy, but after awhile he came around to the idea too. Hell, he knew it was the right thing to do, anyhow... But he wasn’t gonna give up his only son though.” Lenny shrinks back on the couch when he hears that, and I’m not entirely sure why, but it’s obvious that hearing that our dad wanted him makes him uncomfortable. Me, I’m uncomfortable for a different reason. Mostly because he wanted Lenny, but not me. He couldn’t care if I was given away. 

“Wasn’t right that they split you two apart like that, but tryna raise you both woulda been worse. Would’ve ended up in foster care, and Brenda would’ve had even more of a fight on her hands to get ya back. They probably never shoulda been parents in the first place, ‘cause neither one of ‘em knew a damn thing about takin’ care of no kids, but if they hadn’t, well, we wouldn’t have either of you. Can’t really regret that, now can we?” 

His words are meant to console us both, maybe me more than Lenny, because he at least knew more of the story than I did, but it doesn’t make me feel better.

But that’s the end of the tale. When we reach the end of the photo album, Smoke closes it and sets it on the coffee table. “I want you to have that,” he says to me, pointing to the album. “You can maybe make copies of the pictures for Lenny, but you keep that for yourself. Lenny’s already got some things of Brenda’s. So that’s for you to take with ya.” I mumble a ‘thank you’, but he shakes his head. “No need to thank me, little girl. That belongs to you. I’ve just been holdin’ onto it for ya.”

I did smirk a little when he called me ‘little girl’. I don’t take offense to it, though I’m pushing thirty and far from little. It’s familial. I like Smoke. He really does seem like the uncle nobody expects to have, but ends up loving anyway.

I stand up and stretch. It’s been hours, I’m pretty well sober again, and I think I need my space? So I think I’ll be leaving shortly. I think what I really need right now is some time alone to think. To process. There will be plenty of time to get to know more about Lenny before I have to go back home. I’m paid up for the weekend, and while money is tight, I think I can fit a few trips to Smoke’s house in my budget. I guess Lenny’s on the same page, because he stands up too. 

“Well, I gotta get back to he house,” he says to Smoke. Even though I’ll be back at some point, we both take forever saying goodbye to him, and he even gives me a long suffocating hug before I go. Then I follow Lenny outside and we each stand there for a moment in the driveway, next to our cars, and light up a cigarette. “I’m sorry we laid all that shit on you,” he says, like it’s somehow his fault all of this happened. “Ain’t really what you were expecting, was it.”

“It’s alright,” I shrug. “I asked for the truth, and it was given to me. No one ever said it would be a pretty picture.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m… I’m kind of jealous of you,” he tells me. “You know, of you bein’ raised by Deb? I’d give anything to have been in your shoes.”

I chew my lip at that. “Yeah you actually had to grow up knowing how bad our parents were, huh?” 

He nods. “Brenda was great though. You would’ve loved her.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I’m pretty sure all the religious stuff she was into would’ve gotten on my nerves.” He snorts at that. I smirk. “But she sounds nice.”

“She was… So you’re goin’ back to the hotel?” he asks, and I nod. “How long you gonna be in town?”

“I’m… well I’m paid up for the weekend, so…”

“And you’re leaving after that?”

“I… I don’t know yet.” 

We stand there in awkward silence for a moment after I say that, and I realize that Lenny is just as bad as me at goodbyes. Neither of us know what to say. But after a moment, Lenny obviously decides that _nothing_ needs to be said, and just steps closer to pull me into a hug. This whole affection thing is nice, but not what I need right now. I’m not about to push him away though. We hug for a minute, then he pulls away and gives me this tiny, sad half smile.

And says, “Call me when you get up. I don’t work tomorrow. We’ll hang out and stuff. Maybe introduce you to some people. Mack’s definitely wanting to meet you.”

“Sounds good.”

I really wish I knew what else to say to him, but I don’t, so I just nod slightly and head to my car. He watches me start it up and throw it in reverse to turn around in the yard. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now, but I can’t say it’s pleasant. I’ll get through it, I know I will, but right now I don’t want to be strong or brave anymore, I just need to be alone maybe. I don’t like crying in front of others. I don’t like showing that kind of weakness, and I hate that my brother got a glimpse of it.

But that night… is not destined to go the way I thought.

As it turns out, there’s someone _else_ out there that’s trapped in their head too.

Someone lost, just like me.

I’m driving down the two lane highway that leads back to town, intent on heading straight to the motel, when I see him.

I’m crossing a narrow bridge. The speed limit is only 35 mph, so I’m rolling slowly across when I spot a figure, not walking, but just standing on it, leaning over the railing. I ease to a stop, curious. My instinct is to keep driving, because you never know what could happen if you pick up a hitchhiker, but I don’t suspect he needs a ride anywhere. No… no I suspect he’s standing on this bridge for a much, much different reason and my heart races.

In my mind I flash back to a night, years ago, when I was standing on a bridge like this, though it was much bigger, and much higher of a fall.

I was sitting on the railing, and I was contemplating making the jump. I might have survived, but I doubted it. That… had been the plan. I was contemplating suicide. I hadn’t made up my mind yet though, just stared at the dark water below me. Though it wouldn’t matter in the end, because a police car drove by and stopped when they spotted me on the bridge. I panicked. Lied to the officer and said I was just on my way home from work and stopping for a rest. 

What a crock of shit though. 

I remember that night still, and seeing this guy looking so much like me causes me to shift into park, right there in the middle of the road.

He turns, confused, when I stop and get out of the car. There’s no traffic, luckily, so I leave the car running, headlights shining, and make my way over to the narrow walkway that straddles the bridge. I step over the guard rail, and this close to him, I see how handsome he is, bundled up in his coat to stave off the chill in the night air. Honestly, what reason could a good looking guy like him have to contemplate suicide? I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.

But I’m not about to take that chance, and walk away.

“You lost?” he asks me. I shake my head. Maybe? But not as much as he is. I step closer and he doesn’t back away, just stands there, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looks me up and down. Blonde hair fluttering in the sudden gust of wind, his face illuminated by headlights, making his brown eyes seem bright and kind of starry, but he looks so… sad. There are lines in his forehead and creases in his brow that don’t rightly belong on a face without a lot of tragedy behind them.

“You won’t die,” I say to him, and he blinks in confusion.

“Come again?”

“The fall. You wouldn’t die.” I glance over the railing at the water. “At this height you’d survive if you jumped.”

He shifts about, glancing around at nothing in particular, then he asks, “What makes you think I was gonna jump?”

I smirk a little at that, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s a look of understanding. Because it’s written all over him. I see it in his eyes. This guy is me when I was sitting on that bridge, staring down at that water, too scared to jump, but equally just as terrified to go home and live one more day of my life. “Takes one to know one,” I say to him, and he lifts a brow. “How about I give you a ride. You live close by? Or I can drop you off in town? I’m headed that way.”

He stares a me for a moment, jaw flexing a little, like he’s irritated. Probably because I’m a nuisance to him and I’m interrupting whatever he had planned to do. “No thanks,” he says curtly. “I’m good, but I appreciate it though.” 

I sigh at that. I’m not just about to get back in my car and leave this guy standing on a bridge he may very well be contemplating jumping off of. It’s still a pretty good height, and even if he didn’t die, he’d still end up in the hospital. Maybe he can’t swim, and he’ll drown instead. Maybe he was counting on that.

“Well I hope you don’t mind the company then,” I tell him, and move to lean back against the railing beside him, and he looks at me like I’m totally absurd. Maybe I am. I don’t know this guy, not even his name, and I know absolutely nothing about his life. But I do know that I would seriously regret leaving him here if I saw on the news the next morning that he didn’t make it through the night. I can’t fix my life, but… call me crazy, but maybe I can save his.

“Wanna talk about it?” I ask, reaching in the pocket of my hoodie for my cigarettes. I light one up.

“Look, I’m…” He pauses. “I’m fine, really. I was just… I just like to come here sometimes to think. I promise I’m fine. So you can just be on your way. You don’t need to worry about me.”

I snort at that obvious lie, and say, “Yeah, I’ve been having a shit night too.”

“Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’ve got the wrong idea. This isn’t it what it looks like. I wasn’t thinking of jumping.”

I roll my eyes.

“Look, man, you’ve got three options here. A, you let me give you a lift back to town. B, I call the police and let _them_ take you back to town. Or C, we stay right here, right where we are, and we can talk if you want, or not. But those are your options.”

“Seriously I’m fine. There’s nothing to talk about really. I do appreciate your concern? But…” He sighs. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Why do I not believe that?” I ask him.

“You’re really not going to leave, are you?”

“Nope. Not until you make up your mind. So which are we going with? A, b, or c? Take your time. I’ve got all night.”

And I’m not going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme Song: ["You're All I Want"–Cigarettes After Sex](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=BZ6D9SEvBHs&feature=share)
> 
> Leah's Playlist: [Can Be Found Here](https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgsKe1-pKLs-jpMTyUGz27TJ7r8QzeEZW)
> 
> Chat with the writers on Discord: <https://discord.gg/wVFt8Ke5YN>


	4. The Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I stood there for an hour and forty eight minutes, just staring down at the dark water below me. I keep track on my watch, counting the minutes I've wasted with my indecision. Why am I hesitating? Here is everything I've ever wanted, and all I have to do is step forward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah. Bet you thought you wouldn't get anything from me, didn't you? Nope, I'm still here, folks! Just been mostly dead the past week. So, here's the next chapter of Leah and Taylor's story, and, let me just say; Buckle the fuck up. This story is gonna be hard if you have any kind of depression, so gear up with your comfort food and your comfort people.
> 
> Chapter Song: [Gang of Youths-Achilles Come Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_V76Dm42bY)  
> Taylor's Playlist: Okay, let's be real here. I suck at making playlists for characters.
> 
> –Ness

I don't really know where I'm going. But, I guess that makes sense, since I don't really know where I came from, either. My name is Taylor Smith, and I... I don't know why I'm alive.

Life, in and of itself, has an inherent purpose. Whether that's to raise and birth the next generation of life, or to evolve towards a certain pinnacle... life itself has purpose. And that purpose gives it meaning. But... I... I don't have a purpose. And... that means my life doesn't have meaning.

I do the same thing I do every single day. I get up. I stand in the shower. I eat. I brush my teeth. I go to work. In, and out. Come home. Eat. Watch tv, or youtube. And then, back to bed, to start over in the morning.

My life is the spin-dry cycle on the washing machine. Repeating, over and over again, pointlessly, until I'm nothing but a wrung out husk of a person. Most days I don't even bother trying to jerk off. There's no point. It's just another meaningless bodily function.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression at age fifteen, and my folks tossed me at shrink after shrink until I just started learning how to lie to them, so they'd leave me alone. I was given a prescription that I haven't filled in ten years, and since I moved out, I haven't bothered going back for my appointments. What's the point? It's an hour of wasted time, where I lie to someone who doesn't really care. Might as well just stay home.

* * *

Today was like every other day. I got up. I stood in the shower. I ate. I brushed my teeth. I went to work. Except today, something different happened. I work in a call centre, and I was sitting at my cubicle with my headset on, when my coworker, Dave, leaned over to talk to me. He does this every day, and I listen, and talk back. It's just another part of the daily cycle. Pretending to be friends with a man who I have no interest in whatsoever. Except this time, he says something that catches my attention.

“Hey, did you hear? Some famous guy jumped off a bridge upstate. Just parked his car in the middle of the road, walked to the rail, and walked off the edge. Crazy stuff, right? The guy didn't even hesitate. It was like, “Yeah, now's a good time,” and he just straight up offed himself. Can you believe it?”

It was like suddenly someone cut the gray feedback that was looping through my mind, and his words were the bolt cutters. I give the perfunctory, “Yeah, that's crazy,” but I'm not really present anymore. He jumped off a bridge. There's a certain finality to it, that cuts through the static of the cycle in my head.

Things gain meaning by ending, too. I could have meaning, for once, even if that meaning comes from the lost potential of my existence. But really, what am I doing with that potential? It's a sliver of nothingness inside an uncaring universe, inside a world that I've never fit into. But with this... I could have meaning. And not only that, a purpose, for however little time it lasts.

I go back to work, answering the next call, but the idea sits in the back of my mind, burrowing like a carpenter ant, and it's like the world has clarity. Everything is still grey, but for once, there's no fog. There's no static. There's meaning. There's purpose.

I finish my shift, and pull on my coat as I leave. I don't own a car, since it's only a two hour walk to the call center, and everywhere else is a half hour walk away from home. And really, what else is my time worth? I'm walking home, and I see the bridge in front of me. Those carpenter ants that have been digging around in my brain pull themselves out, and point at it. “Look,” they say. “You can have purpose, and meaning, and it's all right there.”

I stare at the bridge, slowly walking onto it. It's not a huge fall. The impact might kill me. I'm not sure though. I'm not a scientist. Maybe if I landed belly first, my neck would snap, or I'd be so shocked by the impact I wouldn't be able to swim.

I walk out, slowly, until I'm in the middle of the bridge. Then, I cross over the guard rail, and stand in that little narrow space before there's nothing but empty air. There's not much wind, so there's no danger in just standing here. Even still, it's cold, and I instinctively wrap my coat around myself tighter.

I stood there for an hour and forty eight minutes, just staring down at the dark water below me. I keep track on my watch, counting the minutes I've wasted with my indecision. Why am I hesitating? Here is everything I've ever wanted, and all I have to do is step forward.

And yet... some part of me doesn't want to. Some part of me is afraid, looking down at the cold, dark water, standing on the edge of the bridge. Maybe there's some hidden shred of me that still believes I can find purpose somewhere else. Maybe it's knowing my parents might grieve me. Or maybe it's just the instinctual animal response of self preservation.

I probably would've kept standing there for another hour or two, but I lost track of the time when I heard the sound of a car parking, in the middle of the bridge. I turned to look, confused. I'm even more confused when the driver gets out, leaving the engine running, and walks over. She climbs over the railing, and out onto the walkway beside me.

“You lost?” I ask, as she comes up beside me. She shakes her head, and takes a step forward. She's beautiful, in a strange way I've never seen before. She has a ring pierced through the left side of her bottom lip, and another ring through the middle part of the bottom of her nose. I don't know what that's called. I can see the edge of a tattoo on the right side of her neck, too. She looks... different. Different than anyone else I've ever seen.

“You won't die,” she says to me, and I blink.

“Come again?”

“The fall. You wouldn't die,” she responds. She glances down at the water. “At this height you'd survive if you jumped.”

I shift, and look away. Why did she say that? “What makes you think I was gonna jump?” I look back at her in time to see her smirk, just slightly, in a pained way.

“Takes one to know one,” she says, and my eyebrow raises. Did she... just admit to...? My thought is interrupted when she continues speaking. “How about I give you a ride. You live close by? Or I can drop you off in town? I’m headed that way.”

I stare at her, one part incredulous, one part frustrated and annoyed. Why can't she go away? Can't she just ignore me and let me just... “No thanks. I'm good. But I appreciate it though.” I try to tack on an appeasement at the end, hoping she'll get the hint and leave me alone. But she just sighs.

“Well, I hope you don't mind the company then,” she says, turning to lean against the rail beside me. What is wrong with this lady? Can't she tell I'm not going anywhere? I'm clearly not going to jump tonight, regardless of her. And then, she has the audacity to say, “Wanna talk about it?”

For a second, I can't even process that. She just barged in on me here, and now she wants me to talk about myself? I want her to go away, so I try to reassure her. “Look, I'm... I'm fine, really. I was just... I just like to come here sometimes to think. I promise I'm fine. So you can just be on your way. You don't have to worry about me.”

She just snorts, and responds with, “Yeah, I've been having a shit night too.”

I do my best to hold back a grimace, and say, “Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’ve got the wrong idea. This isn’t it what it looks like. I wasn’t thinking of jumping.”

She just rolls her eyes.

“Look, man, you’ve got three options here. Option A: you let me give you a lift back to town. Option B: I call the police and let them take you back to town. Or option C: we stay right here, right where we are, and we can talk if you want, or not. But those are your options.”

I try again, because this whole conversation is throwing me off. Nobody talks like that. Nobody I've ever talked to, at least. “Seriously, I’m fine. There’s nothing to talk about really. I do appreciate your concern? But…” I sigh, the grey starting to come back. “I'm fine. Really.”

“Why do I not believe that?” She asks me.

I look at her, with something like resignation, mixed with surprise. “You're really not going to leave, are you?”

“Nope. Not until you make up your mind. So which are we going with? A, b, or c? Take your time. I’ve got all night.”

I look at her for a minute, and you know, for a moment I believe her. I believe that this random woman who I've never met will stay here with me, all night if she has to, if I don't pick. Who is this lady?

I shift again, rubbing my hands against my legs in the pockets of my coat. She just watches me, waiting to hear my decision. Finally, I sigh. If she's not going to leave me alone, I might as well not ruin the rest of her night. “A.”

She smirks, just a little. “Alright then.” She straightens, and holds out a hand, like she's ushering someone important to her car, rather than my depressed ass. I just sigh again, and start walking, climbing over the railing again.

She follows me, and I climb into her car. It's not exactly nice, and it smells like cigarettes, but this entire experience is weird. I've never had anything like this happen to me before, so I have no idea how to react. None of this fits inside my cycle.

She starts driving, across the bridge, and then towards town, taking her time. She doesn't say anything, and neither do I, until she asks, “What's your name?”

“Taylor. Taylor Smith. Yours?” She smiles slightly.

“Leah. Leah Raynes–shit, Bordeaux actually I guess. Sorry, I–uh–I was adopted? Raynes was my adoptive family's name and... I am rambling. Sorry. So where do you live? You'll have to direct me. I'm not really familiar with this town. I just got here yesterday and–shit. Rambling. Sorry."

I can't help but smile a little at that. I give her my address, and direct her as she drives through the small town. She drives slow, even though we're the only ones on the road, giving me plenty of time to study her. I'm not unsettled anymore, and it's... it's weird.

First, she was this tough, sardonic woman, with the will to stay on the side of a bridge with me to keep me from jumping. And now, she's nervous and rambling, like she doesn't know what to say or do. I feel... why do I feel comfortable like this?

I'm talking to a woman I don't know, and she just said something extremely personal, and yet, I feel at home. I don't have much time to reflect on it though, because she interrupts my thoughts with another question. “How long have you been living here?”

“A little over six years, since my parents sold their house and moved away.” She glances over at me, then nods. I feel like I'm going to blush. Why did I say that? I just dumped that on her lap. “Yeah,” I say lamely. “They didn't really stick around after I graduated and got a job.”

She nods, like she gets that, and I guess she does, since she was adopted. I'm about to say something else, to try to keep the conversation going, when I see my building. My heart sinks a little, and I point it out. She pulls up to it, parking her car. I hesitate. I don't want this night to end. I don't want to go back to my cycle of meaninglessness. I have no idea what this is, or what tonight has been. But whatever it is, I want to cling to it.

So I surprise us both, and ask, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

She hesitates for a moment, like she can't quite decide, but then... To my surprise, she smiles again and says, "Yeah. I'm not going anywhere."

And that... that feels... Well it feels like something, I guess. Something good.


End file.
